What is normal? Normal is only ordinary; mediocre. Life belongs to the rare, exceptional individual who dares to be different.

There is no hate such as that born out of love betrayed- and my brain screamed out for revenge.

I am a pretty, useless ornament who always believed she'd have a man to take care of her.

Tragedy had sent me headlong into reality. All the things I had seen before now looked different, even nature.

Perhaps lovers aren't supposed to look down at the ground. That kind of story is told in symbols-and earth represents reality, and reality represents frustrations, chance illnesses, death, murder, and all kinds of other tragedies. Lovers are meant to look up at the sky, for up there no beautiful illusions can be trampled upon.

Dreams, I thought. They're the riches of a poor person, stashed in treasure chests buried deeply in the imagination. But are dreams enough?

Only someone who had cried a great deal understands why someone else wants to stop the tears.